


The New Moon

by wily_one24



Series: Phases of the Moon [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/F, Stripper AU, Stripper Emma Swan, can it really be called a Stripper AU if there are no strippers?, eth, phases of the moon series, the shit has hitteth the fan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 03:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10179392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wily_one24/pseuds/wily_one24
Summary: They stand at the threshold of the bathroom at some nondescript motel, not far out of Storybrooke. The fact that Emma is breathing and talking and standing by herself is a miracle to Regina. The fact that she has woken from a magical coma and is now unable to return to Storybrooke is a knife through Emma's heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** It has arisen! This fic... it.. IT'S ALIVE. 
> 
> **A/N2:** Given where we left off, the smut and emotional stability might be a little ways off, but you trust me, right?
> 
> **A/N3:** I tried, I tried SO HARD to find an alternate title that fit, because who honestly wants to be relegated into the same category as some other similar sounding title, but... I got nothin'. I hemmed and hawed about calling it The Gibbous Moon', but then that title is just too esoteric and really refers to the visibility of the moon, more so than the phase it is in and, honestly, it's the correct one. So... you shall all have to deal with it, as do I (for the last half year as I have considered this fic).

***

Regina snaps her hand back a fraction of a second before another swats through the air, aimed to hurt. Her fingers curl into themselves as she stands there. 

“I... I don't...”

So many things finish that sentence and she can read each and every one of them in the anger that streams out of Emma's eyes... _need help... want help... want you..._ and she should not feel the rejection that courses through her, not so harshly, because Emma is justified.

“... need...” But Emma's gasping, struggled breath belies her. “... help.”

Lean and hallowed and faint, Emma holds onto the door jamb like a lifeline. 

Weak and feeble, Emma needs more than help. 

“Yes, you do.” She says simply. 

Without emotion, because one thing Regina knows about Emma is her absolute loathing for pity. 

They stand at the threshold of the bathroom at some nondescript motel, not far out of Storybrooke. The fact that Emma is breathing and talking and standing by herself is a miracle to Regina. The fact that she has woken from a magical coma and is now unable to return to Storybrooke is a knife through Emma's heart. 

After the initial confusion, waking up in a thin hospital robe wrapped in blankets in the passenger seat of Regina's car as they drove away from the place she had come to call home, Emma had fought and yelled and accused. All reactions Regina had expected. 

Then had come the silence as they drove; the bitter acceptance of the truth. 

Henry's book was real. Regina was the Evil Queen. Regina had placed Emma in a cursed sleep for months. 

She had not known what to expect; Snow had taken a day, two at the most, to waken from the curse. Emma's body, inert and life starved, had begun to waste away in the months that machines had kept her alive. 

They had booked into the motel and now all Emma wants to do is cleanse the feel of hospital and coma from her skin, but she cannot stand by herself and the only person to help is the last one she wants near her. 

Regina wants to just push past the reservations and strip her down, help her shower and dress and into a bed to rest, but the thought of yet another violation of Emma, right this very moment, makes her pause. 

“I will fix this.” A weak promise, but all she can offer in the moment. “I will find a way to get you back in town without the curse, but right now we need to keep you alive out here.”

This time when she reaches forward, Emma does not fight her off; she falls sickeningly pliant and unresponsive to Regina's hands supporting her as they move into the small room. She lets Regina place her right hand on her shoulder and stays perfectly still as Regina unties the gown and lets it fall. 

“Here.” It's soft and quiet and much too loud in the oppressive atmosphere, as Regina guides her to sit on a towel she has laid across the top of the toilet seat. “I'll just turn the water on.”

It takes several moments for the chill to come off the stream, until it warms up, and Regina tries not to think of dozens of shared showers with this woman. Emma, who demanded the water so hot it was almost painful, who ran her fingers over Regina's skin like it was something precious. Emma, whose heat reddened skin always paled so enticingly when Regina's fingers pressed down deep. 

“There.” She says as the water finally turns hot, but not too hot. “Come on.”

Emma does not meet her eyes as she guides her into the water, but Regina can see the slight heave of muscles as she sighs under the shower, watches the way Emma slowly stretches her neck one side to the other, aiming the stream where she wants it. 

Her clothes are getting splashed, a long way from comfortable, but she couldn't care less as she reaches for the small pearly bottle of shampoo. It's an awkward stretch and neither mention it, as Regina stretches her hands up high enough to lather the top of Emma's head, purposely not noticing the arch of spine as Emma leans back. 

She can see it, a visible physical progression, as Emma gets weaker and weaker after the rinsing and the conditioner. Regina hurries, objective and uninterested, as she lathers soap onto a flannel and over Emma's skin. 

Another rinse and Emma is leaning heavily, arm draped over Regina's shoulder, as Regina threads her arm through Emma's elbow and past her to turn off the tap. She can feel a wet, heavy head fall to her shoulder and she takes the weight as they leave the shower. 

Regina sits her on top of the bed before wrapping her in a towel and using a second one to dry her off. Emma, lively and lovely and full of life Emma, now stripped of everything. Limp and unresisting, Emma allows herself to be dressed in whatever clothes Regina had managed to throw into a bag in her rush to kidnap the woman. 

Emma is asleep before Regina lowers her head to the pillow and tucks the blankets up around her shoulders. 

Regina's head has never felt heavier. 

***

Emma wakes near to hyperventilating. 

Her head thrashes from side to side, jaw clenching to near pain, as she struggles to draw oxygen into her lungs. Her eyes scan unseeing over the ceiling and her hands are scrambling desperately in the sheets that cover her. Dizziness so strong it twists her stomach to a painful nausea holds her down to the bed, afraid that even lifting her head will cause her to fall right off the world. 

It takes her a moment to realise where she is and how she got here. 

It takes her another moment to swallow back the tears. 

_It's not real._

The words flit through her brain from out of nowhere and she clamps down on them; a lifeline to a desperate woman. 

_Not real_

She repeats it over and over in her head, like a mantra, like her saving grace. Reality might be a shit show of epic proportions, but it's better than the nightmare realm she's been stuck in for months. 

_Not Real Not Real Not Real Not Real Not Real Not Real_

Eventually her breathing returns to normal and the overwhelming dizziness abates to merely disorienting rather than world ending. Everything in her right now is telling her to run, to flee, to get out of here and get herself safe. 

But she is not an idiot and she knows that she is too weak to do anything by herself. 

It will take time to become self sufficient again and she hates Regina all the more for stealing the very strength from her bones. 

Emma slowly turns her head to see the expanse of empty pillows and sheets next to her. The very room itself, when she takes a moment to look, seems empty and for a brief second Emma wonders if she is all alone again. Terror sticks in her throat. 

Then she sees it; a lump curled into a chair in the corner, limbs dragged up and all covered by a jacket. 

The very fact that it is Regina's presence that calms her - Regina the Evil Queen who took everything from her – is sickening, it galls her to the point that's she's biting the insides of her cheek until she can taste coppery blood. 

She rolls over and slides out of the bed, determined at least to do one thing by herself, to do _everything_ by herself, and manages to stand up. Everything blurs and the corners of her vision turn black. She lurches in a stumble towards the bathroom and her hands hold her up, landing heavily on the door frame and then the sink before she falls in a slump on the toilet. 

***

Her neck aches and her head throbs, Regina nearly groans out loud, blinking in the ethereal grey light of early morning. Then she remembers what woke her; the heavy thick sound of a slump and a thud. 

She sits up straight and scans the room, shocked and yet somehow not at all surprised to see the form sprawled out on the floor. 

She's across the room in a second. 

“Emma?” Kneeling down next to the all too still form, she has her hand on a slick, clammy forehead. “Can you hear me?”

“Emmennehhhhh.” Is the sluggish groan that answers her before a clumsy hand bats hers away. “Mmm'okay.”

Regina can do nothing but rest on her heels and watch as Emma blinks herself back into consciousness. Watch, as her hand opens and closes slowly, as her eyelids open and shut, as Emma shakes her head until she can push up on her elbows and look around the room. 

“I must have blacked out.” And Regina doesn't respond to the obvious. “I.. I got to the toilet by myself, I thought I could do it... I almost... I wanted...”

All she can do is offer her hand, despite the raring need to just grab the woman and haul her up despite all her protests. She is reminded of Henry, a tiny child first learning the phrase 'I can do it!' and the unwarranted feeling of rejection when he needed her less. The comparison is vicious and she wants to shake it out of her head. 

Eventually Emma relents and takes her hand; Regina is careful in helping her to her feet and back into the bed. She turns her back and busies herself, leaving Emma to settle in under the blanket. The small mini fridge in their room opens and closes quietly. 

“Here.” She turns around and offers a bottle. “I hear it's quite disgusting, you should love it.”

Emma gawks at the fluorescent Gatorade being offered, the question obvious in her face. 

“You were quite out of it after you fell asleep last night. I managed to stock up on some basics. I figure you need all the...” She turns the bottle and tries to read the label. “... electrolytes? Look, it's full of sugar and sodium and other apparently essential things. It's the best I could do late at night. Your body needs to heal. I'll find proper foods today.”

Despite trying to hold onto the bitterness and anger, Emma only lasts so long before her arms reach out, fingers grabbing. 

“Gimme!”

***

There were a lot of times in Emma's childhood, not the majority, nor or any great lengths of time, but enough for her to remember, where she had gone through periods of not getting enough to eat. It has informed her adult life more than she likes to admit, the way she consumes the things she wants without ration, the way she does not and refuses to diet, to deny herself the pleasure of going to bed with a full, warm belly. 

So she is used the way that a person's stomach stretches and shrinks and she wants to really, really resent her current state, the way a few sips of the Gatorade sit heavy and thick in her gut. She wants to, but she doesn't because she knows how temporary it is, knows the routine. 

Slow, steady, sips. 

And each one seems to energise her a little more. It's like she can feel it on a cellular level, each and every atom in her body singing as it soaks up whatever the drink is giving her, the way she can feel her head getting clearer. 

She sits cross legged on the bed, happy enough to be sitting upright, grateful not to be sleeping any more. Regina might be the Evil Queen herself, but she is not sleep. And Emma would prefer her over sleep any time. 

Their little motel room is just that; little. There is nothing about it worth noting, not the dingy walls, the notched little table, the small television set, the worn and torn bible in the drawer, the off white mini fridge, the buzz of a neon sign outside the window. 

Emma wants to curl up and just... stop existing. 

There are a dozen, probably more, conversations she can remember with Henry. He had been so adamant about his book, about fairy tales, and Emma had been so dismissive, so completely sure about her own view of the world she hadn't taken the time to give his a second look. 

He was right, she was wrong, and it cost her dearly. Isn't that just the story of her life?

She hates this. All of this, the entire thing, all the conflicting emotions and memories now that she knows part of the truth – and it is part, because no matter how many things she is told or pieces together, she knows the magnitude of double realities and changes histories and frozen time cannot be understood in one conversation let alone days of it – the vulnerability of her weakened body, the dependence on Regina, the vulnerability of her weakened mind. 

But most of all she hates the heaviness of her eyelids. She knows she needs more sleep, knows it would be best for her if she did lie down and rest her head, let her body heal, but her instinct is to fight it as long as possible, to avoid that murky dream land that reaches out to pull her back. 

And she hates the one solution that is within her reach if she just ask for it. 

Emma drinks another large mouthful and twists the lid back onto the bottle. It sits neatly on the bedside table next to her and all she has to do is inch herself down back under the covers. It won't take long. Sleep is not that far of, but neither is her fear. 

She either has to bite the bullet or drown in her nightmares. 

“That chair looks uncomfortable.”

Or she could just swallow her tongue and choke to death. 

Regina looks up and Emma can see the confusion in her eyes as she looks from herself to Emma and back again, as if studying the offending furniture will explain why Emma mentioned it in the first place. 

“It's fine, Emma. Don't worry about me.”

As helpful as she's been, as eager as she is to do as much as she can in penitence, Regina is obstinately clueless and Emma bites her lip. The words stick in her throat, she wishes she were strong enough not to need them. 

“Don't...” She swallows and tries again. “Don't make me beg, Regina, please.”

Coming from her, even that much is close to begging and they both know it. Regina's face pales as the realisation of what she's really asking hits. 

“Are you sure?”

No. She's never been less sure. 

“You don't know what it was like.” It's not an answer, not truly, but it acts like one. Emma figures if Regina knew enough to cast the curse, she probably knows what happens and how it affects people, and she's not above using Regina's guilt to her advantage. “What... what's waiting for me.”

It's a close call between loathing her vulnerability more or the pity that swarms over Regina's face. Either way, it works and Regina is putting her book down on the little table next to the chair and carefully, oh so cautiously, stepping towards her. 

Emma closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see, doesn't have to watch the woman she shared so much with, and yet who ended up stabbing her in the back for it, get into the bed with her like she has so many times before. She does shift over to help, pulling the covers back. 

She expects Regina and the feel of her body, but she's still startled to feel the soft, hesitant fingers that find hers. In her surprise, she lets the covers go. It's as she's holding her breath that she feels them being pulled up again, tucked around her shoulders, and Regina settle herself on top of them all. 

Emma frowns, but doesn't argue, it's better than nothing. 

She's thought they'd meant more than they had, more than Regina had wanted, and this does nothing but confirm that fact. 

But she still reaches out in the dark. 

***

Regina knows she would be on the road to hell right now. 

If she wasn't there already. 

She grits her teeth and stares up at the dimly lit, greyish ceiling in the fading light of the late afternoon sun. Emma has always been a clingy sleeper, snuggling close and holding tight. It should come as no surprise that she's the same now. 

At first, Emma had merely held her hand, the lone concession she'd made awake, and that alone had left Regina biting her tongue. It was something she'd thought she'd never have again, that feeling of Emma's skin, the light brush of her thumb against Regina's own. 

And then, after Emma's breathing had finally evened out, her whole body had rolled towards . An hour after that, frustrated by the barrier, a sleeping Emma had kicked the blankets down and off them both, pressing herself completely up against her, leg thrown over Regina's hip, a hot, clammy hand laid flat on her stomach, and her face pressed up right into Regina's neck. 

Now the hand on her belly has begun to inch up under her shirt as Emma nuzzles into her neck and Regina can't help her body's response. She knows, of course she knows, the seriousness of the entire situation and the gravity of her betrayal. She knows that things with Emma are over, had been over the second she'd baked that turnover. Yet her body has obviously neglected to read the memo. 

She bites her lip as a finger brushes her nipple. 

The only thing worse than lying here trying not to think about or respond to Emma's subconscious movements would be to wake her up. A sleeping Emma is blissfully clueless, a wakeful one would horrified by finding herself grinding up against the woman that had ruined her life. Emma barely tolerates the basic assistance needed to keep her alive at this point, she would be outraged – and Regina thinks probably disgusted – by either touching or being touched by Regina in any sort of affectionate or sensual manner. 

Regina closes her eyes and begins to count to ten. 

Beside her, Emma moans in her sleep. 

Fifty. 

Regina begins to count to fifty. 

***

end chapter one.


End file.
